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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480656">Whiter than Natty Ice</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii'>Oshii</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Caretaker Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Demon Blood, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Nausea, Nightmares, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester Has Nightmares, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Season/Series 01, Sick Sam Winchester, Vomiting, Young Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:00:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>981</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480656</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>S1 Sam has a nightmare/premonition of his future self on demon blood, exercising evil powers not entirely beyond his control. And that cognizance scares the shit out of him, and Dean knows something's up when Sam wakes in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, sick as hell, and refusing to talk about it. H/C, emeto, nightmares, premonition!Sam, young Winchesters.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>107</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Whiter than Natty Ice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Anonymous asked:</p>
<p>I'm like one who asked if you wrote for Sam too. I was thinking one where he wakes up from a nightmare sick and he and dean at first think hes just sick from the nightmare but then realize he has a stomach flu because he's burning up</p>
<p>No idea where "whiter than Natty Ice" came from, but it felt right to say.</p>
<p>Originally posted 4/2/2020.<br/>Link: https://oshii.tumblr.com/post/614341832818786304/im-like-one-who-asked-if-you-wrote-for-sam-too-i</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="post-content">
  <p></p>
  <div class="replies">
    <p>
      <em>This was worse than being possessed, because here, Sam was in full control.</em>
    </p>
    <p>
      <em>He felt his arm lift, the tendons in his wrist flex as his fist clenched, the shift of weight between his feet as he stood his ground, preparing to summon up the newly-nurtured infernal powers within to choke the life out of his brother, who stared with wide green eyes, horrified at the thing his Sammy had become.</em>
    </p>
    <p>
      <em>“S…Sam…” Dean rasped, face gone white, freckles spotting garishly in the absence of blood. The 1911 loosened in his grip, then tightened again, and the set of his jaw hardened once more as instinct overrode rationality – kill or be killed it was, then. Sam was gone, a black-eyed monster in his place. “Sammy, c’mon, don’t make me shoot you.”</em>
    </p>
    <p>
      <em>Sam, lucid in this distorted nightmare world, inhaled to fill his chest and lifted his arm for the final, deadly strike, gritting his teeth against the hellish humming in his veins. “I told you,” he growled, voice gone deep and demonic. “It’s Sam.”</em>
    </p>
    <p>
      <em>His fist clenched once more, and Dean’s head exploded like a wet grapefruit, crimson meat and ribbons of gray meninges splattering the wallpaper. Headless and lifeless, his body crumpled to the ground, limbs twitching, loaded gun clattering to the floor, the barrel still smoking, bullet fired too late.</em>
    </p>
    <p>“Sam!”</p>
    <p>The sudden boom of his brother’s voice – very much alive, and loud, urgent – woke Sam with a jolting start, and he flailed against the sheets, flinging pillows. “Hhhmu-what?!” His heart pounded, and he blinked frantically, struggling.</p>
    <p>Dean reached over from the opposite bed and turned on the light, the brightness momentarily blinding them both. His green eyes were very wide, almost shining, pupils shrinking rapidly. “Another nightmare. Bad one, from the sounds of it.”</p>
    <p>Sam, dissolving gradually back into reality, panted heavily, catching his breath. Sweat dampened his T-shirt and stuck it to his back, plastering the hair to the nape of his neck and temples. Fuck, it was hot in here. His stomach churned, and he glanced over at the digital clock on the nightstand. 4:57 AM. Damn, almost 5. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice raspy with sleep. “’m fine. Sorry.”</p>
    <p>“Mmm.” Dean didn’t buy it. He rested back on his elbows, rubbing an eye. “Like hell. You’re whiter than Natty Ice. Wanna talk about it?”</p>
    <p>The animation of Dean’s brains splattering the wallpaper was still fresh in Sam’s mind – <em>c’mon, Sammy, don’t make me shoot you – I told you, it’s <b>Sam</b> </em>–</p>
    <p>The dull burn of acid at the back of his throat made Sam wince, and he shifted his legs over the side of the mattress, leaning over to rest heavily into his palms. The heels of his hands dug into his eyes, rubbing away both sleep and heartburn. Nausea roiled disconcertingly, and he exhaled harshly, willing it away. “M’fine, Dean. Just a nightmare. Not a little kid anymore.”</p>
    <p>Dean sat up, too, and their knees almost knocked in the small space between the two queen beds. ‘You’ve been havin’ nightmares since Jess died six months ago,” he began, baritone gone uncharacteristically soft. “I’m just sayin’, it might help t’get some stuff off your chest, is all.”</p>
    <p>Sam lifted his head to glare wearily at his brother, although it came across as more of a pained grimace. He felt nauseous and woozy, like he had the spins. “I told you, Dean. Don’t wanna talk about it.” He brought a fist up to his mouth, feeling a surge of acid crawl up his throat.</p>
    <p>Dean noticed, and cocked an eyebrow. “You okay?”</p>
    <p>“I said I’m—”</p>
    <p>“Sam, I swear, if you say you’re fine one more time—”</p>
    <p>The trash can was nestled between Sam’s bed and the shared nightstand. Hastily, Sam reached down and grabbed it, bringing it up to his chin just in time. Bile burned his throat and nose, coming up in a wrenching wave like hot foul water, and tears streamed down his face. “Oh, God,” he gasped between heaves, clutching the can for dear life. The fuck did this come from? The nightmare? He doubted it. More like the greasy half-raw burgers Dean’d brought back from that diner across the street—</p>
    <p>“Whoa, easy,” Dean coached, his voice lost in the awful tide of Sam’s sickness. He reached out to steady his sick brother, offering physical comfort as well. “Easy.”</p>
    <p>Sam was helpless, body locked and set to his stomach’s expulsions, and he focused solely on trying to breathe whenever he could. He felt Dean’s warm hands on his shoulders, his forehead, pushing his bangs out of his face, helping him hold the trash can steady.</p>
    <p>“Sam,” came Dean’s voice from the fringes of Sam’s misery. “I got you. It’s okay.”</p>
    <p>And Sam did feel got, knowing that Dean would not let him fall over, or drop the trash can, or puke on his bare lap. His brother’s hand was hard, rough, callused, worn tough by years of shotgun-wielding and grave-digging and wrench-turning. It was the firmest, most familiar sensation Sam had ever known, next to John’s hands, but when John was all discipline, Dean was comforting, solid, steady.</p>
    <p>“Here, c’mere,” Dean was murmuring, gently disengaging Sam’s quivering fingers from the trash can, lowering it onto the floor beside his feet. “You’re a mess, Sammy. Lemme help.”</p>
    <p>
      <em>C’mon, Sammy, don’t make me shoot you.</em>
    </p>
    <p>In the aftermath of his exertions, damp with fresh sweat, panting like a runaway horse (eyes and nose running disgustingly and lips slick with bile, man, he could use a tissue, Dean was getting him one right now) Sam decided to let the nickname slide, submitting himself instead to his big brother’s efficient and capable ministrations, rehearsed and sympathetic and comfortingly familiar.</p>
    <p>He’d tell Dean about the nightmare when the sun came up and made it less real, and for now, he’d let Dean keep calling him Sammy when it counted.  </p>
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